


Tell him that his lonesome nights are over

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gratuitous Spooning, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 16:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14139654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Bellamy isn't quite sure how the whole 'platonic napping' thing started between him and Clarke, but-- they're really good naps. He's not going to be the one to bring it up.





	Tell him that his lonesome nights are over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AshesAndDrums](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshesAndDrums/gifts).



> HBD Ashleigh! I know this is a few days early but my schedule is gonna be unpredictable the next couple of days so I wanted to make sure this got up. Thanks for being wonderful and I hope you enjoy your mutual spooning!

Bellamy isn’t big on naps as a general rule. He never feels as if they’re a good use of his time, not when there’s so much other stuff he needs to get done during his waking hours, on top of which, he has a hard time turning his brain off. He’s a worrier. It’s something he has accepted about himself by this point. It’s just also not very conducive to taking up napping as a hobby.

Which is probably why it comes as such a surprise to find himself stirring from sleep on his couch with Saturday afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window.

He hums and nuzzles into the throw pillow his roommate bought (because Lincoln has an artist’s eye and no weird hangups about spending money on nonessential items for their apartment), feeling a certain looseness in his limbs that makes him want to melt back into the sofa and stay there forever.

As he shifts, he notices a weird constricting feeling around his middle. Maybe he got caught up in the blanket, he thinks, and reaches down to tug the fabric loose. He expects the feeling of the knitted throw they keep over the back of the couch (again, Lincoln’s decorative touch; the only non-furniture, non-kitchen items that belong to Bellamy are the books that litter every available surface). Instead, Bellamy’s fingers encounter smooth skin and he jolts with a yelp, limbs flailing as he propels himself off the couch and onto the carpet.

“What the hell,” Clarke grumbles, stretching languorously as if she maybe just woke up too. She cracks one bleary blue eye open, then the other, rubbing at her face tiredly. Even fresh from sleep, the power of her glare is remarkable.

“What the hell, me?” He demands, scrambling back and wincing when he bangs his head on the lip of the coffee table. “What the hell, _you_. What are you doing in my apartment?”

“Lincoln forgot we had plans to go to the flea market. He let me in on his way to the gym and told me to hang out until he got back.”

She pushes herself upright, a wrinkle from the couch cushion impressed into her left cheek.

Bellamy would consider Clarke his friend mostly by association. No matter what Octavia thinks, he hadn’t moved to the city to keep an eye on her. He’d been offered a good job here, and being close to his family was one of the many enticing things about taking the position.

Appropriating Octavia’s friend group had been a more deliberate move, at first just to meet the people he always heard so much about and to embarrass the living hell out of his baby sister, as is his brotherly duty. By now he considers them his friends independent of his identity as Octavia’s brother, with Clarke the only possible, glaring exception.

They’d gotten off on the wrong foot somehow, and spent more time taking verbal swings at each other than anything else whenever they were in the same room.

To say she’s the last person he’d ever expect to wake up next to would be an understatement.

“So Lincoln let you in and you just decided to _spoon_ _me_?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“That clears up exactly nothing.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and pulls the tie out of her hair, combing her fingers through the staticky array and beginning to re-braid it.

“You were dead to the world and taking up the entire couch. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I put your feet in my lap and turned your Netflix on. And you _didn’t_ , I might add-- until I fell asleep too, I guess. It’s been a long week.”

“Asleep-me might not have minded, but awake-me is--”

“Well-rested? Rejuvenated? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that nap. You were sleeping hard.”

Bellamy scowls. it was probably the best nap of his adult life, but it’s not like he can admit that. Not when she’s so annoyingly sure of herself.

“That’s not the point.”

“So it was a good nap, and you just don’t want to admit it.”

Shit.

Bellamy huffs and clambers to his feet, heat rising on the back of his neck. “Just-- stay away from me when I’m sleeping, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Blake.”

“Damn straight it is.”

No matter how he works at it, over the next week Bellamy can’t get that nap out of his mind. He tries snoozing for twenty minutes here and there, but even on the occasions he does fall asleep, it’s impossible to recapture the perfect feeling of contentment and warmth he’d felt when he woke up with Clarke.

He knows that correlation does not equal causation but after two weeks of bad naps and crankiness, he has to admit (if only to himself) that there’s one variable he hasn’t tried adding back to the equation.

Not that he’s gotten much of a chance to. He hasn’t seen Clarke since fleeing their post-nap cuddle/fight, and part of him worries that it’ll be awkward the next time they do run into each other.

Luckily, the next time he sees her is at trivia night at Gina’s bar, which provides plenty of fodder for the two of them to get back to the status quo of constant bickering and absolutely zero physical contact.

“Rough week?” She asks, coming up to lean next to him against the bar as he waits for a refill. He doesn’t usually have more than one drink when they’re out, and he’s surprised any of his friends picked up on him breaking that pattern, much less Clarke.

“I’ve had better,” he admits. “Nothing bad, just-- it's that time of the school year when everyone is getting stressed, and it's wearing on me.”

“I feel that.”

Glancing at her, he notices (not for the first time tonight) the dark circles under her eyes. Her smiles have felt more forced than usual tonight, and in a way he’s weirdly glad she doesn’t feel like she has to put one on for just him.

“Yeah?” He says, his prodding surprising both of them.

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I feel like no matter how much I do after hours, or how much I get done at home, I’m never going to catch up. And even when I’m not working, I’m stressing about work. I dreamed about print specs the other night.”

Bellamy snorts. “You need to turn that brain off, Princess.”

“You’re one to talk.”

He laughs, thanking Gina as she slides him a beer and Clarke a soda. “That nap really ruined me,” he finds himself saying when they’re alone again.

Clarke furrows her brow.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve never had a nap that good before, and no matter how hard I try I haven’t had one that good since. And I’ve really needed one.”

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

“I definitely am. But I don’t know how not to.”

She laughs softly, ducking her head, and pride glows in his chest. That doesn’t happen often between them. It feels like a laugh he really earned.

“Yeah, I know how that goes.”

“Wow, who’d have thought we’d have something in common?”

“You mean besides being stubborn, dramatic, and competitive?”

“Yeah.” He hides his smile in his drink. “Besides all that.”

By the end of the night, she’s so visibly tired that Lincoln insists she crash at their place. Bellamy is happy to stand back and let Lincoln bicker her into the passenger seat. Nap aside, he doesn’t feel like he and Clarke are close enough for him to have made the argument himself.

(Though he had already stolen her keys. Just in case.)

She faceplants on the sofa as soon as they get through the door and Bellamy follows her, kicking at her dangling foot.

“Shoes off the furniture, Griffin.”

She mumbles something he can’t make out but is probably obscene, and he snorts, ducking into the hall to grab something from the dryer. Clarke is so exhausted she barely reacts when the t-shirt and boxers he tosses her way land on her back, just reaches up to move them where she can get a better look.

“What are these for?”

“To sleep in. They’re clean, I promise.”

“Thanks, Bellamy.”

“No problem. Get some sleep, Clarke.”

* * *

When Bellamy startles awake, the quality of the light tells him the sun will be rising soon. At first he doesn’t know what woke him, but then he catches sight of a dark figure standing in his open doorway-- the door he usually keeps closed while he sleeps-- and his heart lurches out of his chest.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry,” Clarke says, sheepish as she takes a tentative step further into the room. “There’s this noise the ice-maker keeps doing--”

Sighing, his heart still pounding with adrenaline, Bellamy rolls toward the wall and pats the newly vacant space beside him. Though there’s a solid foot of space between them, he can feel the heat and weight of her as she eases under the covers next to him, and it lulls him back to sleep within seconds.

* * *

It should come as no surprise to him to have moved toward Clarke in the middle of the night. He’s a cuddler, and he knows it. It’s part of what made him so shitty at having the one-night stands he thought he wanted in college.

Even knowing that about himself, waking up with his arm over her waist, her body tucked snugly into the bends and curves of his own, catches him off guard. Maybe because of how right it feels.

He rolls away from her before she can wake up, marveling at how loose his neck and shoulders feel, rather than the tightness that’s usually there from clenching his jaw during the night. Clarke rolls over to face him as he stretches, and it strikes him that she’d woken up in his embrace and hadn’t moved away. Hadn’t seemed put off at all, if the sleepy smile on her face is any indication.

“Morning.”

“Hi.” Under the covers he can hear her joints popping and he grins when she wilts happily into the mattress. “What time is it?”

“Like… ten,” he says, squinting at the display on his phone.

“No wonder I feel so good,” she muses. “That was what I needed, I think. Just a good, long, hard sleep.”

“Good. I’m glad. How do you feel about scrambled eggs?”

“I feel like I should be cooking for you guys, since you let me invade your apartment and everything.” She slides out of the bed and Bellamy tries not to stare at her legs in his boxers, or the shape of her underneath his t-shirt.

“Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

“You know offering your help is the number one thing that’ll make me refuse to ask for it, right?”

Bellamy groans, closing his eyes again, feeling too good to move. “Just don’t burn the building down, Princess.”

“You’re not the boss of me, Blake!”

Lincoln finds them both in the kitchen when he gets back from his morning run an hour or so later, and a look of deep suspicion grows on his face as he watches the ease of their good-natured teasing.

“Want some toast?” Clarke asks, sliding the plate of slightly-charred bread his way. Lincoln’s suspicion turns to amusement as he regards it.

“I ate before I left, but thanks. Let me know when you want me to take you to your car.”

“Just gotta get changed and I’ll be ready,” she says, popping another slice, slathered with butter and strawberry jelly, into her mouth and padding off to find her clothes from the night before.

Bellamy avoids Lincoln’s gaze as he goes for another cup of coffee, though he’s not sure why.

“Do we need to talk about this?” Lincoln asks, more curious than disapproving, and oh yeah. That’s why.

“Talk about what?”

“You and Clarke.”

“There is no me and Clarke. I thought you wanted us to be friends?”

Lincoln crosses his arms, which Bellamy has to admit is an impressive move.

“She’s wearing your clothes.”

“She didn’t exactly pack for a sleepover.”

“And she wasn’t on the couch this morning when I left.”

“She was hearing weird noises in the middle of the night so I let her crash with me. Nothing happened, I promise. I don’t need the big-brother-intimidation talk.”

“I was going for more of the ‘don’t make our friend group weird’ talk,” Lincoln snorts. “Clarke is plenty intimidating. She doesn’t need anyone else doing it for her.”

“Well I don’t need that talk either. We’re good, I promise.”

Clarke reappears before Lincoln can argue the point further, and it’s obvious how much better she’s doing than she was the night before. Bellamy can’t feel bad about helping her get real, refreshing sleep in a bed, even if it weirds Lincoln out.

“Ready?” She asks, accepting the travel mug Bellamy offers her with a mock toast.

“Yeah,” says Lincoln, clearly still dubious. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

* * *

Bellamy hates the spring semester. There aren’t nearly as many holidays as in the fall, on top of which, any days off or teacher workdays they start with usually end up being overtaken by snow make-up days so that they don’t have to cut into summer vacation. Spring Break is the only respite he gets, and in the weeks leading up to it, his students are so restless that he starts literally counting down the hours.

His only plans for the week are to play video games in his pajamas all day, which is maybe why he’s both alarmed and disgruntled when he emerges from his room the second morning to find Clarke sitting on their couch.

“I’m gonna start charging you rent,” he grumbles, glad he at least put sweatpants on over the underwear he sleeps in. He draws the line at putting on a shirt, even if Clarke is here. It’s vacation, and it’s his apartment. He gets to be as shirtless as he wants.

“Good morning to you too,” she says, not looking up from where she’s typing furiously.

“What--”

She holds up one finger and his jaw instantly snaps shut, which annoys him more than being put on hold in the first place. At last, she clicks send on whatever email she’s composing and looks up.

“My apartment is getting fumigated. Lincoln said I could crash with you guys until they let me back in.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“My boss is out of the office so I’m working from home. Or-- working from your home for a few days, I guess.”

“Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

“Looks that way.” She lifts a mug of coffee to her lips and he forces his eyes away. “Don’t let me stop you from watching TV or whatever. I’m good at tuning you out by now.”

“Ha ha,” he deadpans, reaching for the controller. “You should really be nicer to me. I’m letting you stay here out of the goodness of my heart.”

“Out of the goodness of Lincoln’s heart. You’re just too much of a mother hen to turn me away at this point.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

They both know it’s a lie, but neither of them mentions it.

It’s surprisingly nice, spending time with Clarke. They’re friendly enough with each other he doesn’t feel like he has to play the host for her, or keep up any kind of conversation. They lapse into a comfortable silence, occasionally broken when he swears at his game, or when she grumbles under her breath about one of her clients. Sometimes they offer responses to such outbursts, but more often they just leave each other to their own devices.

“Lunch?” He asks around one. Clarke blinks, as if pulled from deep inside herself.

“I didn’t realize it was that time already.”

“Don’t tell me how often you forget to eat. It’s better for my sanity if I don’t know.”

“Deal.” She puts her laptop down and stretches. “What’ve you got?”

“Sandwich stuff and leftovers, mostly. Come on, we can check it out.”

She doesn’t completely stop working while she eats, which doesn’t surprise Bellamy at all.

“I should’ve known,” he says at last, watching with amusement as she holds half of the sandwich between her teeth so she can have both hands free. She frowns at him and puts the sandwich down on the plate, speaking as she chews.

“Should have known what?”

“That you’d be a workaholic.”

“I am not.”

“You won’t even stop to eat,” he points out. “The world won’t fall apart if you take an hour break, Clarke.”

“I know, I’m just-- on a roll. I’ll close the computer as soon as I finish this one thing. Give me fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

Exactly fifteen minutes later, he starts knocking his knee against hers in a relentless, obnoxious pattern. (He may have been watching the clock to make a point, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“What.”

“It’s time for your break. You promised.”

“Ugh.” She sighs and her fingers speed up, as if by sheer will she can get an hour’s worth of work done in the next three seconds. “I should have just gone to Starbucks.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

“And that was clearly a mistake.” She finishes typing and pushes the laptop away, pinching his leg the next time he comes at her and smirking when he flinches. “Look, I’m taking my break, see? Do I get brownie points?”

“So many brownie points.” He slumps into the cushions, feeling full and lazy as he usually does after he eats. “What are you going to do with your hour? Want to put something on Netflix?”

“Honestly?” She pauses. “I kind of want a nap.”

Bellamy’s spine stiffens.

“Yeah?”

“They kicked us out pretty early this morning. I’ve been in a fog all morning.”

“Oh.” He wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants and sits up, feeling awkward for the first time all morning. “Well, go for it. I can go hang out in my room and read or something.”

“Okay.” She bites her lip. “Or-- Okay.”

“Or what?”

Her mouth opens, and then closes again.

“I was just gonna say-- You could stay. If you want?”

His brain short-circuits.

“You want to take another nap together? On purpose this time?”

A rosy color blooms in her cheeks and she looks away. “You’re right. That’s-- I don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously we shouldn’t do that.”

“We can if you want,” he finds himself saying, without thinking it through as much as he maybe should. “I mean-- I was probably going to try to fall asleep reading, so-- Up to you, I guess.”

She returns her gaze to him, uncertainty in her eyes.

“I should probably set an alarm.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

She fiddles with her phone for longer than strictly necessary. If it were anyone else, Bellamy would think they’d chicken out rather than follow through on their awkward suggestion, but he can see the stubborn set of her jaw, the steel in her eyes, and it makes his lips twitch upward.

“Couch good?” He asks, stretching out and scooting down until his head is on the armrest.

“Sure.” She perches on the edge of the couch cushion for a beat, figuring out where and how to make her move, and then she’s turning with her back to him, tucking herself up against him. This probably would have been better on his bed, he realizes when he tosses an arm over her side and meets the strange sensation of his hand continuing to fall further than he expected. The couch is not as wide as the bed, and if they’d gone to his room they wouldn’t have to be _so_ right up against each other.

On the other hand, there’s a certain intimacy of inviting her into his bed during the day and fully awake that he hadn’t felt in the middle of the night. The couch was definitely the way to go.

In a few seconds, it becomes obvious that the most awkward part is not spooning Clarke, but figuring out how to do so. His right arm is comfortably situated around her, but his left arm-- well, it isn’t long before he starts to feel the pinpricks of his circulation being cut off.

He tries resituating it beneath him, but can’t get enough weight off it to help the situation. Wedging it between their bodies is no good either; it forces Clarke to arch her spine too much, and a frustrated huff from her has him moving it again. She doesn’t actually say anything, though, until he elbows her in the head trying to pillow his arm on it.

“I’m going to murder you.”

“Well I hope you have a foolproof plan, because you just lost the element of surprise.”

“What’s going on back there?”

“I can’t get my left arm situated, sorry.”

He gets it tucked up how he was trying to, in the tunnel-like space between his neck and the arm of the sofa, but he can already tell that staying that way for too long is going to be painful. Still, that might be preferable to moving again and pissing Clarke off. Trying not to disturb her, he tries to ease his arm out gingerly (with no new plan of where to put it).

She notices, of course. How could she not.

“Turn over,” she snaps.

“What?”

“Roll over.” She puts one foot on the floor, giving her the leverage to flip herself around, and for a second they’re pressed chest-to-chest, eyes wide like they’ve caught each other in something secret. “Go on,” she says at last, poking his shoulder.

Bellamy heaves a sigh and somehow manages to reorient himself, his arms curling easily, naturally, like they finally remembered what to do with themselves. Traitors.

Clarke’s knees press into the backs of his thighs, her feet resting against his calves. Her hand comes to rest on his abdomen, fisting in his shirt like she’s anchoring herself (which she might be; he’s sure she’s precariously close to falling off the furniture entirely).

“Better?” She asks. Her breath tickles the back of his neck.

“Much.”

She hums in response, but that’s as much as he gets before a wave of sleep sucks him under.

* * *

They don’t mention the nap to anyone, because then they'd have to explain it, and Bellamy isn't entirely sure he's able to.

They also don’t mention the nap they take together the next day. Or the day after that. Or the one after that.

In fact, even after Clarke can go back to her apartment, she ends up coming over every day of his Spring Break to hang out and work. And nap.

It’s fine, and it’s definitely weird, but Bellamy isn’t going to be the one to bring that up. She might stop if he does.

“You’re really getting the hang of this,” she teases on Friday, when he takes another stab at being the big spoon and doesn’t spend the first ten minutes shifting restlessly.

“I can’t tell if you’re being patronizing or not.”

“I mean a little, but mostly sincere. So much better than that tossing and turning on Monday.”

“Well, practice makes perfect.”

She squirms a little, half-burying her face in the cushion. Bellamy tries not to notice the way she feels up against him, but he doesn’t have that kind of control over what goes on downstairs, much as he’d like to. She hasn’t seemed shocked or offended any of the times he’s woken up a little bit hard, so he figures she knows it’s to be expected. He just chalks it up to another weird thing they’re politely overlooking. If one of them brings it up, it won’t be him.

“I’m going to go back to school on Monday better-rested than I have been since… my preteen years, probably. It’s not like I slept much in high school or college.”

Clarke’s laugh reverberates from her chest to his, the contractions palpable under his palm on her stomach. A strange sensation, but a good one.

“You should bring back naptime. Kindergarten has it. Why can’t high school?”

“Because my job retention is tied to my students doing well on their finals. Besides, my students would not be this good at keeping their napping platonic. I’d be breaking up a lot of shit I don’t want to see.”

“True.” She gives a satisfied sigh. “We’re the best at platonic naps for sure.”

In the moment, Bellamy agrees wholeheartedly.

It’s only later, when he’s alone in his bed and half-wishing there was another warm body-- a _specific_ warm body-- lying beside him, that he wonders if it’s still as platonic now as it had been when they started all of this.

* * *

Over the course of the week, he and Clarke had developed somewhat of a routine.

A routine that gets thrown off on Saturday morning when she shows up and freezes in the entryway, staring at Lincoln sitting in her usual spot on the couch.

“Clarke?” Lincoln pauses the game he and Bellamy are playing, concern written across his face at her stricken expression. “What’s up? Don’t tell me I forgot we had plans again.”

“No,” she says, recovering a little. “I just got bored at home. Thought I’d come over and see what you guys are up to.”

“We’re really busy, obviously,” Bellamy says, motioning to the screen.

“I can see that.” She smiles and drops to sit on the floor, pulling her sketchbook out of her bag. “Please, carry on.”

“Thanks for your permission, Princess.”

“Shut up, Bellamy,” she says, far more cheerfully than she would have even a week ago. Lincoln looks confused and suspicious once more, but when Bellamy unpauses the game, he continues playing without comment.

Eventually, Lincoln has to go meet Octavia. When he stands to leave, he looks sort of like he expects Clarke to follow him out, but she just smiles and waves goodbye to him, making no move to leave, herself.

“I can’t believe it’s already Saturday,” he gripes as he gets out the sandwich makings for lunch. Clarke is already untwisting the tie on the bread bag, their routine a well-oiled machine after a week.

“Not ready to go back?”

“Definitely not. I’ve been trying to knock out my grading a little bit every day, but I still have a stack like six inches thick.”

“You want some help?” She offers, tongue darting out to lick the excess mustard off her thumb. For a moment, Bellamy is distracted.

“With grading?” He stammers as she stares expectantly at him.

“Yeah…?”

“Oh, uh-- no, thanks. I decided I’m not doing any work at all today. Gonna milk today for all it’s worth.”

“Then we’d better make it one spectacular nap.”

He laughs, passing her the turkey. “Yeah, I guess we better.”

Apparently by ‘spectacular’, Clarke means ‘in a bed’, because she herds him toward his room after lunch, looking around at the photos and books on his shelves with curiosity as he hastily arranges his covers into some semblance of a made bed.

“Sorry it’s not cleaner in here,” he says when it’s as good as it’s gonna get.

Clarke flops onto the bed, unbothered.

“You think this is messy? You should never see my room, then.”

Bellamy thinks he’d kind of like to, but instead he just lies down beside her, his heart fluttering stupidly when she immediately turns to curl around him. He puts his arms around her, his full stomach and lazy morning already weighing down his eyelids.

“Isn’t this better?” She asks, nuzzling down into his shoulder. “Nobody’s in danger of falling off.”

“Almost like beds exist for a reason.”

She laughs softly, pinching his side. “You’re such a dick.”

“Seems to really bother you,” he says, dry, gesturing to the way she’s almost half on top of him.

“Well, you’re not as much of a dick as I used to think. Just the right amount.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

As ever, it doesn’t take her long to drift off, and the slow, even rhythm of her breaths carries him right along after her.

Without alarms set or obligations to meet, they end up taking a much longer nap than Bellamy expected. It’s late afternoon by the time he begins to stir, on his side now with Clarke’s forehead nestled into his chest.

He aches to linger there, to stay wrapped up with her for as long as he can, but his bladder has other ideas. Without waking her, he manages to untangle himself and roll out of bed, slipping down the hall to the bathroom and wondering if it would be weird to go back and cuddle her when he has no intentions of falling back to sleep.

But he never gets to find out, because on the way back to his room, Octavia says, “Bell?”

She’s poking her head out of the kitchen, where he can hear something sizzling on the stove. It must mean Lincoln is in there too, because despite his best efforts, his sister never made much headway learning to cook.

“Hey,” he says, going over to flick her forehead in greeting. She flicks his bare chest in return, raising one eyebrow.

“Someone’s really embracing the no-work week, huh?”

“Making the most of it. You don’t like it, you don’t have to be here.”

“Please,” she snorts. “I lived with you for eighteen years. I’ve seen worse than this. Remember when you used to gel your hair?”

She reaches up to ruffle his curls and he bats her hand away, scowling.

“Yeah, your looks haven’t all been winners either. You staying for dinner?”

“Lincoln’s cooking for me,” she says, smug.

“Lincoln’s a better man than I am.”

“You want some?” His roommate puts in, pausing in his stirring to look over his shoulder. “There’s plenty for three. Or-- four?” He says, looking past Bellamy. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Hi,” comes Clarke’s sheepish voice from behind him. She still looks sleepy, as she gives a little smile and littler wave. “I’ll totally crash your dinner if that’s okay. I can’t remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t cooked in a microwave.”

“How did you survive to adulthood?” Bellamy teases, fond. Clarke sticks her tongue out at him.

Lincoln and Octavia are both staring at them when he turns around, but unlike his roommate, his sister isn’t a fan of polite prodding.

“Wait, are you guys sleeping together?”

Bellamy finds himself exchanging a glance with Clarke.

“In a manner of speaking,” she says. Octavia scowls.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means, we crashed after lunch and took a nap together,” Bellamy says. “Don’t read into it, O.”

“So you’re not hooking up?” She demands, crossing her arms.

“Haven’t ruled it out.” Clarke shrugs, overly casual. Bellamy carefully doesn’t look at her, playing it cool in front of his sister and his roommate, but inside his stomach is suddenly swirling. “But we could hook up anytime. Why would we let that cut into our naps?”

“Naps-- plural?” Lincoln puts in, his eyebrows rising.

“I told you, I’m making the most of my week off. Can we all move on now, please?”

“Fine, but I’d like to point out that _we’re_ not the ones reacting weirdly here.” Octavia rolls her eyes.

“Your opinion has been noted, thanks.”

They somehow switch to a different topic, though the memory of Clarke saying she hasn’t ruled him out as a prospect hovers in the back of his mind throughout the remainder of the evening. Octavia looks suspicious when she and Lincoln get ready to go back to her place for the night and Clarke looks like she’s going to stay, but to Bellamy’s great relief, doesn’t comment.

He feels oddly jittery as Clarke settles closer to him after they leave, on the brink of something he can’t quite name.

“Netflix?” He asks picking up the remote, just to have something to do with his hands.

“Sure.” She pauses, watching him pull up the screen. And then, without looking at him, “I guess we should probably talk about what I said before.”

“We don’t have to.” He wets his lips. “If you didn’t mean it, or if you-- We can pretend like it didn’t happen if you want.”

“We could,” she agrees. “But then there’s no chance at all of me getting laid, so-- I don’t know. You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, and all that.”

“A sports reference? Really?" He asks, smiling.

“An _Office_ reference, clearly."

“Sure.” He turns to her, finding on her face a grin that matches his own. “So you weren’t just-- sticking it to Octavia before?”

“That was only like half of it,” she smirks. “I like you, Bellamy. You’re easy to be around.”

“Even if all we do is argue?”

“I like arguing.” She looks down at her hands in her lap, like looking at him takes too much courage. “Hanging out with you this week has been really fun. I would’ve said something earlier, but-- if you weren’t interested, I didn’t want to make the napping thing so awkward we'd have to stop.”

Bellamy laughs and reaches for her, meeting her halfway for a clumsy, smiling kiss.

“I’m interested,” he promises, tucking her hair behind her ear. Clarke grins and kisses him again, sliding closer and closer still until they both get frustrated with the angle and she ends up in his lap.

“To be clear, I want to date you,” he adds, the next time they surface for air. “I’m not just in it for the nap access. But I am expecting that to happen a lot more.”

“Same here. Those really were some of the best naps I’ve ever had.”

“Some of?” 

“Top ten material for sure, but I think there’s room for improvement. For instance--” The next kiss is softer and sweeter, and it melts away his indignance. “More of that wouldn’t hurt.”

“Alright,” he sighs, running his hands up and down her sides. “I guess I can see your point.”

* * *

They don’t take things any further that night, but Clarke does stay over, and as always, Bellamy sleeps soundly and wakes up feeling refreshed. He kisses her hair before he gets out of bed and smiles at the way she nestles down into the warmth he left behind.

He’s started the coffeemaker and is just getting out ingredients for breakfast when Lincoln lets himself back into the apartment.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Bellamy responds, soft enough he won’t wake Clarke, he hopes. “Scrambled eggs? I’m making them for me and Clarke.”

Lincoln’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand the relationship you two have. You’re taking naps and spending all your time together, but you aren’t dating?”

“We are dating,” Bellamy corrects him, unable to restrain his smile. “It’s new, though. We talked after you guys left last night, completely unrelated to the napping thing.”

“Really.”

“Really,” Clarke rasps, coming into the kitchen behind them. Without looking up from his pan of eggs, Bellamy nudges a cup of coffee her way. She kisses his shoulder in thanks. “I know it sounds fake, but it’s what happened.”

“I don’t get it,” Lincoln declares, though he looks less concerned and more amused than he had before.

“That’s okay,” Clarke tells him. “It worked for us. That’s what matters.”

And for once, Bellamy is in total agreement.


End file.
